Anne. What! No blow? Here, where I felt it—here? Is there no wound, No black mark?
Mrs. Hathaway. Oh, she’s wild! I’ll take her. Come! Come, Anne! It’s naught! I know the signs. [To Shakespeare]. Stay you!
Anne. O Mother, there befell me a strange pang Here at my heart—[The two go out together.]
Shakespeare. O women! women! women! They slink about you, noiseless as a cat, With ready smiles and ready silences. These women are too humble and too wise In pricking needle-ways: they drive you mad With fibs and slips and kisses out of time: And if you do not trip and feign as they And cover all with kisses, do but wince Once in your soul (the soul they shall not touch, Never, I tell you, never! Sooner the smeared, The old-time honey death from a thousand stings, Than let their tongue prick patterns on your soul!) Then, then all’s cat-like clamour and annoy!
Henslowe. Cry, “Shoo!” and clap your hands; for so are all Familiar women. These are but interludes In the march of the play, and should be taken so, Lightly, as food for laughter, not for rage.
Shakespeare. My mother—
Henslowe [shrugging]. Ah, your mother!
Shakespeare. She’s not thus, But selfless; and I’ve dreamed of others—tall, Warm-flushed like pine-woods with their clear red stems, With massy hair and voices like the wind Stirring the cool dark silence of the pines. Know you such women?—beckoning hill-top women, That sway to you with lovely gifts of shade And slumber, and deep peace, and when at dawn You go from them on pilgrimage again, They follow not nor weep, but rooted stand In their own pride for ever—demi-gods. Are there such women? Did you say you knew Such women? such a woman?
Henslowe. Come to London And use your eyes!
Shakespeare. How can I come to London? You see me what I am, a man tied down. My wife—you saw! How can I come to London? Say to a sick man “Take your bed and walk!” Say to a prisoner “Release your chain!” Say to a tongue-slit blackbird “Pipe again As in the free, the spring-time!” You maybe Have spells to help them, but for me no help. London! I think sometimes that I shall never see This lady in whose lap the weed-hung ships From ocean-end returning pour their gold, Myrrh, frankincense. What colour’s frankincense? And how will a man’s eye move and how his hand, Who sailed the flat world round and home again To London, London of the mazy streets, Where ever the shifting people flash and fade Like my own thoughts? You’re smiling—why?